


Of Snow and Truths

by bellinibeignet



Series: Braving the Weather [2]
Category: Captain America, Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Established Relationship, M/M, Superhusbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:30:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellinibeignet/pseuds/bellinibeignet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This Christmas is the most important. This Christmas is the one that they want to get absolutely right.</p><p>The Heat and Breeze Christmas Special, in four parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, you will want to read The Heat and Breeze before this piece. I don't think it would make much sense without it.
> 
> Anyway. I never planned to do this, but it sort of crept up on me the other night, and here I am. I wrote it rather quickly, just like the first story, but a lot of the scenes and sentiments have been in my mind since I wrote The Heat and Breeze. So I hope this is fulfilling. I know a lot of people wanted to know more about this version of Steve and Tony: my headcanons, what happened to them after Briony left, if they were happy. In the scope of the Christmas holiday, I will give some answers. I tried to give a little bit of everything in this one: angsty, sensuality, humor. 
> 
> So yeah. I hope it pleases.
> 
> I listened to Lucia Micarelli's Music From a Farther Room while writing, for those who like knowing that sort of thing.

# Steve

 

_December 1 st, 1941_

 

It is very cold. What little sun winter allows doesn’t give the apartment any extra warmth, more so to Tony's dismay than Steve's; the cold isn’t as daunting as it once was, Steve decides. Surviving the snow as a solider was treacherous, and when his toes were numb and his gloves were thinning, all he could do was wish for real warmth, not the teasing rays of a sun on the other side of the world.

The truth is, even the first breaths of warmth in spring didn’t delight him. Not in those days. Not when heat was limited to temperature. Not when he was desperate for a breeze to swim across his heart to cool down his anguish.

His definition of real warmth had always been the fog around his mind when Tony walked across the lawn of the Stark's old country home. Or turned a corner on campus, sinking into Steve's view as an unexpected visitor - although he spent most days picturing him, wishing that he was allowed to expect him, to need him.

Real warmth is when they are so close that he can make out the dark, dark ring around Tony’s blue irises. Real warmth was the feeling of Tony’s fingers gripping at him when they first made love against a bookshelf in Howard Stark’s library. The shudder of being inside of him that first time.

Real warmth is the space they share, the normalcy of a domestic life brewing between them.

He has Anthony now, as he had always wished he would. No morning can be too cold or lonely when – with just one stretch of his arm – he can pull Anthony into his body and kiss his skin, hum against his spine with weather-ridden lips, satisfied. So incredibly satisfied with what he has, despite the icy path it had taken to get him here.

It has been a year and five months since Briony wandered onto their stoop with the proclamation that she wanted to give them their happiness. A year and five months since they’d rejected that audacity.

For a long while after that day, Steve wondered if that had been the right thing to do. Were they so despondent to not accept her apologies? Were their hearts so bitter? If they had taken her into their arms and said “It’s quite alright. You were a mindless child”, would the healing have come quicker than it did?

There is no telling of that now. Months and seasons have passed since that day, and wonders of _what if_ are just a ghost of wasted energy. Yes, the healing had taken a long and aching time for the both of them, and God knew that Briony still crept into their minds on weaker days – neither of them will deny it - but they’ve arrived at a state of mutual calm, even when it once seemed impossible.

The truth is, Steve was the one who took the aftermath of Briony’s deceit with the gravest of stumbling. The stress of his sullied name piled on thick, and he carried it like grit on his skin. Being ripped from the arms of the boy he loved just hours after making love to him left him restless. And when he returned to him, bearing the face of a broken man, he wished he had written more letters, had more faith.

And his mother. She was gone. Died while he was in jail from a bad and heavy heart. Once he was a free man, the cloud of loneliness reminded him that he had not a single blood relative.

And he’d wake in the middle of the night in cold sweats from the nightmares. The sight of men and women and children lying dead on the streets and lawns of every city he trekked through. They all asked him why he didn’t save them.

And Tony. Tony would be in the worst of those nightmares. He would stand there atop a hill in a field of red flowers, face shadowed by a golden sunset, the stain of blood on his chest, asking him to come to him in death in a cool and peaceful voice.

And then, Steve would jump from sleep, breath caught in his lungs.

Guilt brewed in his chest and fingertips because it was Anthony who had to hold him, had to come home from work to treat yet another patient, had to try to find the right words for his broken soldier. Would swallow down the salt of sweat as he kissed Steve’s forehead – “Hush. I’m right here.” - and open himself up when making love seemed like the only cure Steve believed in. And, in the same token, had to suck in deep and painful breaths when Steve couldn’t bear to touch him.

Because it all hurt so bad.

Why did it have to be like this? Why did it hurt so bad?

Steve’s name was cleared promptly after Briony’s visit, and he was not asked to return during the relaunch of the war due to the slight scarring of his lungs from his Italian knife wound. But no amount of documents could heal the gaping wound of trauma and heartache, missing years he wouldn’t get back. No discharge from the military could reinstate that sense of serenity he once felt when he saw Anthony walking around the old riverspot, or the confidence of his steps when he cornered him at school just to slip a book into his bag, a note saying ‘Tell me you love it. S.'

The warmth of 1940’s summer was mostly gone before the bright blueness of Steve’s eyes appeared to have some grate of happiness again. It had taken months for him to accept that life was approaching calm, and that Tony would be at his side for the thick and thin of it, regardless of Steve’s mangled spirit. That Tony had no qualms about holding him when he cried troubled tears. That Tony wasn’t going to let him lose himself, eventually forcing him out of bed with a stern brow on the days when he didn’t want to move.

“The world won’t end for either of us,” Tony would say. “No point in pretending that it will.”

That was Tony - cutting to the chase, wording the state of tragedy and despondency in a succinct poetry that made Steve feel grateful for having him. Something in the way Tony spoke had quickened his healing, making him want to reaffirm himself as Tony’s equal, not just a broken man who’d been changed by deception and war.

 

This morning is December 1st, 1941, and it is finally late enough for the blue of morning to seep into the apartment.

However, it isn’t the light that wakes Steve. It is the sound of Tony on the other side of the bedroom’s thin double-doors, his voice loud and irritated.

It takes a few moments, but Steve gets out of bed and slides on a pair of flannel pajama pants to venture out.

The front door is open, and Anthony is standing in his boxers and one of Steve’s thick longshirts he’d been given in the Army. His hair is mussed in all directions, and by the tiredness in his eyes and the newspaper in his hand, Steve deduces that he’d crawled out of bed only moments before, and had gotten distracted before he could come back inside.

“…and you’re an old bat who should mind her goddamn business!” Tony spats, pointing with the rolled up daily for emphasis.

Steve shakes his head, half-grinning, and drags his feet to the refrigerator. “Leave her alone, Tony,” he mumbles, pulling out the pitcher of orange juice.

Tony only glances back in the room before turning his attention back to his (monthly) spat with the landlady. “Oh, I bet you’d love that, huh? Maybe you should put that old dog to sleep already. All he does is fucking cry and keep me awake.”

Steve says his name again with a tired and amused yawn, and Tony comes back in, muttering to himself while heading for the stove to make his morning tea. Steve takes him by the arm before he gets too far, and when Tony looks up at him, it is as if he’s just realized that Steve is there, and the anger in his eyes diminishes in an instant.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Even before brushed teeth and groomed skin and morning tea, this is when Steve loves him most of all. A close second to the mornings when the landlady doesn’t disturb them, and Steve can roll over and make love to him for a few greedy and needing moments. Where all of their energy can focus in on one moment, regardless of the scars and damage they’d known for years.

For a moment, Steve considers leading Tony to the bed to do just that, but he knows there won’t be enough time to get near enough of his fill before Tony has to leave for a Sunday therapy appointment. He is covering for Natasha, who is too pregnant to move.

He licks his lips and watches Tony walk away to start his kettle, and then Steve sits at their small table, lets his eyes roam their small apartment, and then settles on the small word-a-day calendar beneath the window. _Amelioration._

“We should get a Christmas tree soon,” Steve says.

Tony scoffs, brow flourishing as he fiddles with the broken pilot light (which he’d managed to rig into functioning with a safety pin). “A new goddamn apartment is what we need,” he huffs.

Steve waits until the stove is heated and the kettle is set to boil so that Tony can come and sit across from him. He watches in silence as Tony brings an apple up from the fruit basket. “So you don’t want a tree?” Steve asks.

A smile slips into the corner of Tony’s mouth. “That’s not what I said. I said we need a new place to live.”

“We’ve almost saved up enough to buy a new stove.”

“It isn’t the stove, Rogers,” he says, rolling his eyes and lifting a leg so that his foot rests on Steve’s thigh under the table. Steve wraps deft fingers around Tony’s ankle and rubs the skin and sharp bone, happy at the mewling sound it elicits. “Two guys living in a flat as small as this one? The old bat may be blind in one eye and have stones in her ears, but she can’t be that daft. Not after all of this time.” He bites into his apple. “And another thing: I’d love to not hear that fucking dog yelping all of the time.”

He shakes his head and glances out of the window. The traffic of morning is starting, and blue is quickly becoming sprinkled with the gold of the sun. A rare sunny day, although the frosty air is still a threat on the other side of the fogging glass. “She can have her dog, but I have to keep quiet when I fuck my boyfriend because … hell, some stupid goddamn reason.”

Steve’s brows raise in amusement. Tony isn’t always as quiet as he should be, they both know.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Tony had seen his aches as well, although it took a very different path from Steve’s - short and sharp. In hindsight, it doesn’t surprise Steve that it happened that way, as Tony was never the one to dwell too long. In anger, in happiness, in sadness, Tony was the sort of man to dodge most bullets with the ease of a ballerina, with unwavering steely blue eyes and an impenetrable armor.

In the late summer of that year – when Steve’s nightmares subsided and he smiled more often - Steve managed to convince Tony to return to New York City to visit his parents’ graves. He knew Tony well enough not to be convinced by a façade. Somewhere inside of Tony, he needed closure. He’d made his own needs subservient to Steve’s aches and comfort. Let himself believe that Steve’s livelihood was enough for him to heal vicariously.

Steve knew better.

“You need to heal, too,” Steve had whispered to him once the leaves had changed from green to gold. “Let me take care of you now.”

Standing over a paired gravestone - the Maria and Howard Stark’s names in marble, aided by the words “In ends, we continue with what we’ve left” - Tony didn’t say a word for long minutes, hands in his pockets, shoulder to shoulder with Steve, staring down at the ground. And it wasn’t until Steve put a hand at the small of his back that the raven-haired Stark – so similar to his father – found himself submitting to the pain of his ails, leaning over and pressing his face into the collar of Steve’s suit.

And Steve held Tony for more minutes than he could count, more time than he could ever bear to pay attention to. He kept his arms braced around him, even when Tony’s cries should’ve been hushed, even when Tony tried to fight away from him in his angst and confusion.

Steve came to a conclusion in that very moment, remembering the nights of nightmare, the unhinged sense of anger boiling in his stomach, the outrage of so many years lost, the ghost of explosions in his mind startling him every time he heard the clash of trash cans on the street. In all of that time, Tony never once wavered. He was a beacon of tranquility – as much as he could be, carrying his own pain – never faltering, never complaining. He’d made it his duty to provide, to heal Steve’s anguish as best he could, taking on all responsibilities without batting a lash.

It was finally Steve’s turn to reimburse him, to become the unyielding rudder that Tony so needed.

Tony had carried a different sort of pain than Steve’s. In his heart and mind was a feeling of lostness and lonesome. His entire family had broken his heart in one way or another, and he was left to mend himself in the time that Steve was away at war, holding onto a single thread of hope that they would one day reunite, if only Steve would return a single letter.

And even if Steve did return, Tony would never know the luxury of a family, of nieces and nephews, of seeing his mother smile at grandchildren. Any semblance of community he’d once known could never be.

And it angered him. It made him fickle. It made him enjoy liquor more than usual. It made him lose patience. It made him work more hours and sleep less.

Until Steve dragged him to a boxing ring not far from their apartment, tossed him a pair of gloves, and said, “Hit me.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Yes, well, I’ve run out of options, and I can’t stand another day of touching you and feeling a gritty shell. Hit me.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Hit me.”

That day, Steve let Tony punch him with all of his might, until he seemed soft again, his eyes more welcoming than they’d been for weeks.

And that night, Steve made love to him, and Tony accepted him so frantically that his eyes were threatened with tears. Today, there is still a faint scar on Steve’s right ribcage where Tony had dug his fingers in deep enough to draw blood. There are still so many scars.

They were so desperate to find steady ground in those days. Wanted to step without the fear of shadows haunting and teasing them. So in need of steadiness.

_Amelioration._

“I want a Christmas tree, too,” Tony confirms with a yawn, his eyes fluttering shut as Steve’s fingers trickle from his ankles and up his calf, then toy with the dark hairs of his shins.

Steve believes that they are okay now.

He believes it with all of his might.

 

 


	2. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmases of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this universe without a little bit of soul-crushing pining?...

# Tony

 

Tony doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder when the shower door screeches open and the cool air comes in. Almost immediately, the door shuts again, and Steve is pressing up behind him, kissing his shoulder. Tony moans a hello and hands back the bar of soap in his hand, with which Steve washes his shoulders and back for him. Tony lowers his head and lets the steaming water cover his head and sink into his ears.

“There are supposed to be carollers in Trafalgar Square today,” Steve says, his voice groggy with morning. “I think.”

Tony turns and gives a silent nod, letting the water rinse his back. “We should take the train into London then. After I get home from work. We could do some shopping, yeah? Scout a tree?”

Steve nods, tries to hide his delight, but Tony sees everything.

Steve needs this Christmas tree more than he is willing to admit. He has too many memories of Christmases with Tony, and too few where he could actually touch him like this, call him his own, have any control of the outcome.

Yes, there had been many Christmases before this one. And all were memorable for one reason or another.

For example, one of Tony’s earliest memories of Steve had been at one of the Stark Christmas parties. In fact, most Christmas memories of Steve were from the annual holiday parties. They were no more than four years old when they first had to sit through one, confined to the corner of the room with toys and cookies as distractions from the drunken parents. Steve, as usual, was sitting on his own, watching the adults, saying nothing. Tony went over to him, threw an arm across his shoulder and told him to buck up.

Tony had child’s eyes then. He knows now what young Steve had been thinking about in those days. What child could smile while watching his mother serve New York’s most prestigious? At that age, Steve had realized that he didn’t have much, that his mother worked too hard and still couldn’t buy him the things that he wanted. And that he had no father. Not one he would ever know.

Many of their childhood Christmases unfolded that way, with Tony trying to make the housekeeper’s son smile.

At twelve, Steve stopped going to the holiday party. He was old enough to help with decorations for the day, then stay in the little cottage on the edge of the property by his lonesome, waiting for his mother to come home.

Tony wasn’t old enough to miss him then. Way too young to know too much.

Then, at fifteen, it all changed. From his window, Tony could see Steve – muscled and taller since he’d last seen him – helping to carry in the Christmas trees from the property. And when Tony stood quietly at the landing, looking down on the foyer, he watched Steve stand there with his hands in his pockets, listening to his mother give him instructions.

Feeling the burn of someone staring, Steve looked up, and the whisper of a hello showed in his eyes and lips when he saw Tony standing there. And Tony had been so surprised by it – or rather, how it made him feel – that he walked away, back into his room.

And when he went to bed that night, he touched himself more eagerly than he ever had, thinking about how long Steve’s back was, and how his chinos fit across his crotch, how big his hands were.

The next winter, Tony would pretend that he lamented the drive to the summerhouse for the holiday party – the stage of being an angsty teenager - but the truth was the reverse. There was nothing like pulling up the drive and seeing Steve and the other workers using all of their strength to bring the trees in. Steve was even taller, broader across the shoulders, jaw strong and voice deep as he called out directions.

He wasn’t a quiet four year old anymore. He was becoming a man, just as Tony was.

Tony would make an excuse to walk through the house while Steve worked at moving furniture, giving coy glances, watching the way Steve’s t-shirt would raise when he climbed the ladder to adorn the tree with its star.

Steve was nothing like the boys in boarding school. He’d filled out with muscle, veins bulging at his forearms. When he lifted up the couches and table, he could make it look effortless. And still, he would grunt from the depths of his hard chest, sending a wave of shallow energy up Tony’s spine until he just couldn’t stand it anymore. Steve filled Tony with the sort of uncomfortable anxiety that could only be cured in the dead of night, when Tony could retire to his bedroom and slide down onto his fingers, rut into his hand, fantasize about being kissed.

And when the day of the party arrived, Tony would wait, wait, wait until the late hours when the crowd started to dwindle. And Steve would finally come in, finding a corner to stand in while he waited to take his mother back to their cottage, so obviously trying not to draw any attention to himself.

But it was impossible for Tony to miss Steve, so blond and gorgeous, out of place with no tuxedo. Tony would watch him, so goddamn frustrated that Steve could be that quiet, so criminally ignorant to his allure. Steve would just… stand there with his hands in his pockets, admiring the gigantic trees he’d helped to carry, eyes twinkling as brightly as the lights and tinsel did.

And Tony would watch, dressed in his white holiday suit, enjoying how the wine felt in his chest – never mind his age – and doing his best to will Steve into looking his way.

And Steve – oh, _Steve_ – he always would. He’d find Tony in the crowd, give a small smile, maybe wave, and Tony would do the same, then return to the party, afraid that if he looked for too long, it would mean something.

It was easier to ignore it then. It was better to pretend that he didn’t want the housekeeper’s son, or that the warmth in his belly was simply the wine.

If he’d only known what he knows now, he would’ve realized that a set of blue eyes would watch him all night at those parties, desperate to commit the sight of him to memory.

Those were Christmases spent in distance, in ignorance to one another’s adoration. When they were too young to know anything about love. When all they knew was the desperation riding low in their stomachs, the lust of being a teenager.

All of the holiday parties had been the precedent to what happened in their college years, when they were well within reach, but still unsure how to touch. When Steve had lost his virginity to a girl in his first semester art class, and when Tony lost his to a boy from his lacrosse team just a week before winter break would begin. He’d pretended that it was Steve from start to finish.

Tony remembers that - cruelly enough - Steve showed up at his dorm just days after that, hands in his pockets with shy eyes. They’d seen each other once since school started - very early in the semester - but not so close that Tony could make out the blue of Steve’s eyes or the strong vein down his neck.

“H-hi,” Tony had stuttered, too taken aback to invite Steve in.

“Hey. Sorry for bothering you. I know it’s the Sunday before finals and I-”

“No, it’s fine, I-”

“-just dropped by to tell you that your dad rang me.”

Tony’s heart dropped into his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was for fear of bad news, or because Steve hadn’t come on his own accord.

Steve announced that they were to both take the train to Hudson for winter break, and that Howard would pick them up at the station and bring them to the country house. Tony already knew this, but was so wound up that he only nodded, biting down on his tongue and hoping for blood.

“I just – uh – well, if you needed help with your things that day, I could come by and-”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Tony told him, quicker than he’d meant to. The anxiety he thought he’d left in his high school years had rushed back. All he could think about was the boy he’d had sex with not days before, and how he wished he’d had the strength to wait for… something. For Steve to want him, to touch him like that lovely brunette girl he was rumored to have dated through most of the semester. “I mean…” Tony took a breath. “I’m sure you’ll have to help your lady to the train station. Gentleman you are.”

Steve swallowed, and a blush sank into his cheeks. “Oh. Peggy. No. That wasn’t – we’re-.” He stopped to lick his lips. “We aren’t seeing one another anymore.”

“Oh.” Tony nodded.

And when silence crept between them, Steve said he would see him at the station, and left.

And when they were at that station, they indeed saw one another, but didn’t say a thing. Tony stayed with his friends on a separate side of the station, and Steve sat on his own, reading or drawing. Every once in a while, Tony would steal a glance his way, and more often than not, Steve would have his head down in his distraction.

But sometimes, their eyes would lock, and Tony’s breath would hitch, and he’d tear away from the gaze, convincing himself that it was only coincidence. Steve loved feisty brunette girls and art, and couldn’t possibly be staring across Grand Central station, pining after Anthony Stark. That just couldn’t be true.

It wasn’t until his third year that Tony stopped being so damned daft. At least a little bit.

A snowstorm caused a bit of damage to the track for their train to Hudson, delaying their departure to the night before Christmas Eve when most kids from the college were long gone. This left Steve in his seat on one side of a nearly empty station, and Tony on the other. Most that were waiting for a late train were curled into their chairs, wrapped in their coats and trying to catch some sleep. The echoing click of shoes across the marble floors was gone, and the silence of the station was taunting and loud.

Tony kept his eyes down in his book, lost in its prose. It was a shining new copy of _The Postman Always Rings Twice_ , a book that he’d been wanting to read since its release only weeks ago. To his surprise, he’d found it in his mailbox that morning with a note inside. _Merry Christmas. –S_ it said. He’d stared at that piece of paper as if it were a message to decode.

At the start of their second semester the year before, Steve had gotten into the habit of suggesting books to Tony whenever they ran into one another. This eventually turned into books appearing in Tony’s mailbox, or being slipped into his bag (somehow). All with notes. Signed with an unimposing S.

This book was different, however. Tony realized that it was a Christmas gift. They’d never exchanged gifts in their lives, and only seemed to be friends from a distance.

Suddenly, Tony wondered if he should’ve gotten Steve a gift in return. And what could he get a boy who seemed to need nothing?

Tony looked up from his book when he was distracted by the sound of heels on the marble. He’d only looked up in instinct, and was prepared to return to his book until he saw that it was Steve, his suitcase in one hand, coming from his side of the station, gaze focused on Tony.

Tony bit down on the inside of his jaw, took a moment, then looked back down at his book, staring at the words which seemed to say nothing now, and held his breath until he felt Steve slipping down into the chair next to him.

At a glance, Tony watched Steve rub his hands across the thighs of his slacks, like he was wiping away sweaty palms. This made Tony look over at him in full, and Steve was already looking at him with the hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth, a smile in his eyes.

“Good book?” Steve asked.

“Atrocious.”

It made Steve relax, chuckle.

It was so silly that they acted this way.

“Hi,” Tony said with a heavy release of breath.

“Hi to you.”

It was an hour and a half before their train arrived, and Tony took that full time to tell Steve about how good his book was, and how it was much better than the last hardboiled novel Steve had given him. And every once in a while, Tony would clear his throat and look down at the ground, thinking maybe he talked too much. But then Steve would ask another question, encouraging him.

And when the train finally arrived, instead of boarding separate cars as they’d always done, Tony nodded towards his sleeper car, feeling daring enough – finally – to suggest that he didn’t lament spending time with Steve.

However, Steve insisted that he would stick to his coach ticket. The dull thud of Tony’s heart spread down into his stomach, not expecting the rejection.

Then, he noticed that Steve didn’t seem very happy about being so prideful. He wasn’t rejecting Tony at all. He’d bought Tony a Christmas present. Had walked across the train station and slipped into the chair next to Tony and wiped the nervous sweat from his hands. Had taken a chance. Hadn’t been seen dating anyone since Peggy during their freshman year.

Tony shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the back of the train, to Steve’s car. And when he glanced back over his shoulder, he found Steve watching him, surprised, frozen on the platform.

 Years later, Steve would tell Tony that he’d never been so surprised and relieved than he’d been in that moment. When he could see affection in Tony. When there seemed to be a hint of possibility – if ever he became brave enough to grab at it. Whether the moments lasted for two minutes in the school’s bookstore, or for an hour in an empty train station, or for two hours in a railroad car, it was the best that he could ask for.

They sat in the lounge car with their knees colliding like it was something they always did, and Tony couldn’t think of being anywhere else.

And Steve thought Tony seemed far more relaxed than he look when having lunch or walking the quad with his classmates.

Because Tony’s laughs were so _real_ with Steve. Nervous at times, but never forced. And - _oh -_ he laughed so easily with Steve, away from other people watching. Moments like these would nearly convince Steve that he would never see something more beautiful. Moments where Tony could throw his head back and laugh, reach out and shove Steve’s arm after being teased, let the blood rush to his cheeks and pull his feet under him as if they did this all of the time. As if they were sitting on a couch at the dorms and not in the empty lounge car of a train barreling towards upstate New York – towards reality – at witch’s hour on Christmas Eve.

If Tony had known his own worth, he surely would’ve realized that Steve hadn’t thought of anyone else in years. That Peggy had been lovely, but set no flames. That Steve breathed Tony in with more honesty - more blatant need - than anyone he would ever sit next to, or ride a train with.

 And he also would’ve known that the little stack of books he’d collected over his college career weren’t just gestures from a friend. They were gifts from a boy who was in love with him, who had convinced himself that he’d never have him. And each little note stuck inside were promises that he didn’t know how to make just yet.

And if Steve had taken a chance and given in – right when Anthony had stopped laughing about Steve spilling coffee all over his term paper and having to turn it in with stains and wrinkles and a formal two page apology – if he’d just… let himself shudder at the sight of Tony’s wet and parted lips. If he’d stared right into Tony’s eyes and let his intent show, he could’ve surely slipped a hand under Tony’s chin and said “God, I’ve been needing you,” and then kissed him, right there in the empty cabin with nobody watching, pulling him over and gripping him and saying it again – “I _need_ you” – and believing that Tony would say it back – because _of course_ he would say it back.

And they could’ve belonged to one another then. And they would’ve had time. And perhaps Briony and cousin Lola and Dr. Reed Richards would’ve never been able to force them apart.

Or maybe it would have happened just the same. Maybe things would’ve happened _exactly_ as they did.

Still, the past is the past. It is stagnant and irreversible, just as it is for everyone else. The world will never stop or turn around. Not for them.

This is what is true: Steve didn’t kiss him on that train. He thought about it – he thought about it several times – but did nothing. And when they arrived in Hudson, they left the platform together, elbows bumping as they braced the cold and buried their lips in their scarves.

But when they got into the backseat of the car – this time and during future trips - they sat as close as they could without touching, their hands resting at the space between them.

And when the bumpy road made the car jump, the backs of their hands collided.

And neither of them moved away.

That is true.

“I should’ve told you I loved you then,” Steve would one day say.

And Tony would reply, “I wouldn’t have appreciated you then. Not yet.”

Which was also true.

Of all the Christmases between them, Tony knows that _this_ one will be the most important. This is the one that Steve Rogers wants to get right. This is the one that will negate all of the trouble, will reaffirm the state of their lives together. This Christmas will be made of everything they once thought they would never have.

This Christmas, Steve needs a Christmas tree. He needs it more than Tony wishes he did.

But Tony can’t blame him. Christmas means joy, tradition and recurrence, warmth despite winter, blessings manifested. Christmas means curling into love and knowing that things are going to be okay.

Steve needs a Christmas tree because he needs to believe that old memories of trains aren’t all that’s left. Steve needs a tree so that he can believe they aren’t just playing house to bide time. Steve needs a tree because he wants to erase the memory of the last Christmas. The one that put that scar down the middle of Tony’s chest.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and angst. Of course there had to be angst.
> 
> Next: The Christmas of 1940. The one with no Christmas tree.


	3. Steve & Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas without a Christmas tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long. It was a complicated chapter to write, and the reason will be apparent once you read.
> 
> You might find that it will have some edits in the future. I'm still not too confident in the scenes with Bruce. But I won't change anything too major. I don't have a beta for this story, so bleh. All the hard work falls on me. :P
> 
> IMPORTANT: The sex scene in this chapter is 1000% consensual, but I can see how it might seem triggering. Proceed with caution.

# Steve & Tony

 

_December 1 st, 1940_

 

They hail a car to the hospital – although it is within walking distance – because Steve insists that it is too cold for Tony to be outside. Tony doesn’t put up much of a fight; he’d promised that he would go to the doctor without a fuss if his cold seemed to get any worse.

Sometimes Steve likes to peck, be unnecessarily watchful and close, demanding. On occasion, Tony will let him. They came a long way just to have that luxury.

Tony is sitting on the patient bed, waiting. He’s gone through his check-up, and he weighed in at five pounds heavier than when he was last at the doctor a year ago. He smirks to himself. Steve mentioned that he’d gained weight around his middle, and Tony is fairly sure that it wasn't a complaint.

Tony also has a fever, which is why he’s here. Fever and bad congestion with a nasty cough. The nurse drew a bit of blood and did an x-ray of his lungs, then gave him a throat lozenge, leaving him to wait for the doctor.

Steve has been sitting on a small stool, trying to be inconspicuous, but that is impossible when you’re Steve Rogers. “The nurse likes you,” Tony says once she’s gone.

Steve pulls his seat over until he’s close enough to lean against the exam table. He smirks and puts his hand on the back of Tony’s bare calf, his fingers sliding up and down, up and down, with nearly no pressure. He does this a lot - touches him for no other reason than because he can. Tony still doesn’t know how he’ll get used to it, how he’ll fight away the purring in his stomach, the agony of not being able to have him in public places, if only for just a kiss.

“She was just being nice,” Steve finally says, looking up at Tony with a smile that betrays his lie.

“I can’t take you anywhere without some dame falling for that stupid charm of yours.”

“Stupid charm, is it?”

Tony purses his lips to fight a laugh. He winds up laughing anyway, which turns into another coughing fit. “Look. You make me sick.”

“You were never a very good liar,” Steve says, letting his hand rise a bit until he’s cupping the side of Tony’s kneecap. He hesitates for a moment, and feels warmth grow in his belly when Tony’s eyes invite him to wander beneath his hospital gown.

When the doctor knocks to come in, Steve folds his hands in his lap, leaving Tony wanting.

The doctor sits on his high stool, glancing through Tony’s file, nodding to himself as he flips pages. “It seems to me that it is just a bad cold. A bit of a sinus infection.”

Tony shoots his eyes Steve’s way, but doesn’t voice his _I told you so_.

“I recommend bundling up pretty tight, staying near the heater. I’m giving you an anti-biotic to fight the infection. Because of your heart condition, we don’t want-”

Steve sits up. “Wait, wait.”

Tony shuts his eyes and holds his breath. He feels the prickle of anticipation trickling underneath his skin like a phantom itch. He doesn’t need to have his eyes open to see the tension grow in Steve’s neck and shoulders, the length of his jaw hardening. He knows what reactive Steve looks like, emotion showing in a thick sheath on every inch of him, defensive and cold, punctured glass ready to shatter and fall. Tony had waited months to see that version of Steve slip away, had pulled every therapist trick in the book to return Steve to some semblance of the smiling and light-footed man beneath the turmoil.

“Sorry – heart condition?” Steve is asking.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please continue, Doc.”

“No, _wait_ ,” Steve demands, looking at Tony with tight brows. “What’s he talking about? What heart condition?”

Tony pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down his frustration. Finally, he opens his eyes. “Please,” he says, voice low and private. “Not right now.”

Steve noticeably fights against saying something more, but settles on a resigned breath and nods for the doctor to continue.

“As I was saying,” the man continues, now looking more curiously towards Steve than he had before. “Because of your heart condition and the weather, you’ll want to be a bit more cautious. If pneumonia sets in, we’ll be in quite a bind.”

The doctor leaves two medicines to relieve the congestion and muscle aches as he leaves, and Steve sits in silence as Tony stands to get dressed. Despite himself, he feels a burning in his chest as he watches Tony slip out of his robe, all skin and no shame. He will always feel this way when he sees Tony naked, will always feel obligated to touch him, to stretch him out and kiss down every column of flesh he can get to.

“Heart condition,” Steve says. He wants answers, but isn’t sure of the question.

Tony glances over his shoulder. He’s quiet as he zips and buttons his pants, seeming to toss a few words around his mouth before finally saying, “Why else do you think I didn’t have to go to war?”

Steve can’t deny his first thought. He also knows that Tony knows exactly how Steve had reasoned it. Tony is Howard Stark’s son. He doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to. Including enlist in war.

Steve says nothing, because now he realizes that his conclusion hadn’t made much sense at all. Tony was the sort of man who put others before himself, even if it didn’t always seem so obvious. He was the kid who took the blame when the boys kissed him in boarding school. Did everything he could to clear Steve’s name. Wrote to Steve letter after letter despite not receiving a reply. Shunned his entire family for their harsh judgment. Became a therapist to do his part in the healing of war.

Maybe Tony wasn’t the soldier type, but he surely seemed to wear the fit of a hero.

“It’s a dilated cardiomyopathy,” Tony says, and he almost sounds bored, but Steve can tell that it is a front. He is avoiding eye contact, guilty, confessing. “Heart’s too big. Veins too small. Bad valves. That sort of thing.”

He says it like a grocery list, and that baffles Steve. “But what does that mean? Is it life threatening?”

Tony stiffens. It is his turn to wear the tension. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

“Obviously not if-”

“I said stop and I mean it, Rogers. Fucking stop it.”

Steve stands. After a moment of silence, he shrugs his strong shoulders, but he is anything but nonchalant. “You know what? You’re right.” The hint of a wry smile slips onto his lips, but it doesn’t last long. “It isn’t as if I should know about the major health concerns of the person I want to spend the rest of my goddamn life with. You’re not obligated to share that with me. I’m just the guy who _loves_ you for some goddamn reason.”

Steve grabs the medicine from the counter and stuffs it into the pocket of his bomber. “I’ll get us a cab,” he grunts over his shoulder as he leaves. “Unbe-fucking-lievable.”

The door slams shut, startling Tony.

When Tony gets into the cab, Steve is sitting isolated on the opposite side. He only glances at Tony for a second before returning to stare out of the window, breath causing a contracting circle of fog on pane. The ride home is short and silent, and twice Tony thinks to say something – perhaps a joke about their university years - but bites his tongue instead.

In the apartment, Steve turns the dial on the space heater up as far as it will go without the temperature being unbearable. Tony watches him tear out of his coat and toss it onto the couch, more aggressive than he needs to be. Then, he stands with his arms folded across his chest, staring Tony’s way.

Tony feels his mouth go dry. He doesn’t know what to say, so he slips out of his own coat and lays it gently next to Steve's, a playful mockery of Steve’s boiling temper.

Steve doesn’t even arch a brow.

“Are you upset with me?” Tony asks, a wary smile on his lips.

Steve says nothing, and no matter how displeased he looks, Tony is glad they are at least making eye contact.

Tony takes slow steps across their living room. “Oh, come on, Stevie,” he says, and when he’s close enough, he puts his hand on Steve’s bicep, squeezing.

Steve bats the hand away, and Tony raises his brows. When he tries to touch Steve’s cheek, his hand is pushed away again, this time with more power, nearly knocking Tony off balance.

Tony feels his blood go hot. “Watch yourself, Rogers. You have one more chance to push me away, or this is going to turn into a circumstance you don’t want.”

They stand in a face-off, Tony trying his best to be calm, and Steve showing close to no emotion.

And when Tony tries again to touch him, he doesn’t get far because Steve grabs him by the wrist in mid-air, gives it a threatening squeeze, and shoves it away harder than he did before.

Tony’s shields go up. He is now defensive in a way that he’s never been before with Steve.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks, his voice level now that he seems to have Tony’s undivided attention.

Tony ignores him, starts to turn toward the kitchen, but Steve takes him by the arm. Tony tears away from the grip as if Steve had tried to burn him. He points a daring finger at him. “Touch me again and I swear to God....”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks again. “After all of this time?”

“God, why does it fucking matter, Rogers? You just want to make yourself feel useful. Guess what? I don’t need you to fucking do that. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh yeah? Is that what you want? To take care of yourself? Fine. Tell me to leave. I’ll make my exit if that’s what would make you happy.”

Tony scoffs as he pulls a mason jar of cold tea from the fridge. “Don’t be so goddamn dramatic,” he says, leaning lazily against the stove and drinking.

Steve knows that – yes – that last part was extreme, but he is burning with frustration. Can feel the deception tickling his fingertips, prickling down the back of his neck. “You should’ve told me. I should’ve known. We – I could’ve hurt you or-”

Tony offers a dry laugh as he nearly chokes down his drink. “Not to bruise your ego, but I doubt that all the sex was going to cause heart-failure.”

The first thing in reach is the umbrella stand, and Steve knocks it over. Unlike when he’d slammed the door, Tony doesn’t startle at all, doing his best to remain unmoved by Steve’s burning temper. Still, Steve bounds over to Tony in just a few long strides, takes the mason jar and sits it on the counter with a clatter, making a mess as the drink sloshes over the brim.

“Can you be serious for five minutes?”

“Can you stop making a big deal out of nothing?”

“You have a condition, Tony. I-”

“I said I was fine!”

“I don’t give a fuck what you said!” He slams his fist against the countertop. “How can you not _get_ it? All of those smarts in that pretty head of yours, and you think that saying you’re ‘fine’ is going to dissuade me? Do you know what it took to get me here? To get me _right here_? Next to you?”

When the room goes silent for Tony’s answer, he realizes he’s been holding his breath. And that Steve is so close to him that their stomachs would touch if they exhaled at the same time. And Steve’s words drop into Tony’s stomach like a heavy weight. They are so close that it feels dangerous, Steve’s breath warm and wet over Tony’s upperlip and chin, a fire in those blue eyes that makes the blood in Tony’s veins go cold. He knows that the aggressive energy wafting off Steve’s body isn’t meant to seem threatening.

And maybe it doesn’t.

No. Threatening isn’t the word.

It is breaking Tony’s heart. The broken soldier is right there in front of him. The man who nearly threw Briony Stark down a staircase is standing in the living room again wanting answers, and Tony wants everything but to see this version of Steve. He wants this version to go away and never return.

What couple of words he can muster come out in a choked confidence. “Stevie, stop.”

“No, Tony. I can’t ‘stop’. I spent too long wanting to wake up next to you, and now that I have you, I’ll be damned if I wake up and you’re dead in my arms and I don’t know why. I would deserve to know why!”

Tony tries again to stay steady, to sound convincing. “I’m not going to die.”

“Jesus Christ. That’s not the fucking point, Tony!”

With that, Steve grabs Tony’s shoulders, then pulls him away from the counter a bit just to push him back against it with enough force make Tony groan at the sharp pain of the countertop digging into his lower back. Tony starts to say something – something to soothe him, something therapeutic – but he finds himself staring up into Steve’s eyes, and he is quieted by the darkness in them, silenced by the guilt in his own arrhythmic heart.

Then, Steve’s hands go to Tony’s jaws, and he brings him in for the most tense of kisses they’ve ever shared, every muscle gone rigid and clinging, and Tony grabs at his neck, letting out the saddest of whimpers. Steve grunts into him, pulling him away from the counter and pushing him over to the bedroom, stepping haphazardly over scattered umbrellas.

Tony is pushed stomach-down onto the bed, and he muffles a cry as Steve’s weight falls behind him. He can feel the thick and anxious muscle of Steve’s cock rubbing and growing at the back of his thigh.

It’s never been like this, but suddenly it has to be. Steve needs to yank the both of their pants down without a hitch of romance. He needs to hold Tony down as he reaches into the nightstand and dip his fingers into the small jar of soft petroleum, and take no extra time to loosen Tony up. He needs to make himself slick and bury inside of Tony in just a few thoughtless motions.

And soon, he is rutting down into him, reminding him that there is no one – _no one_ – who cares for him more, who feels more threatened by the idea of losing him. Even in his anger, his erratic and dangerous thrusts, locking Tony’s wrists  above his head so that he is immobilized, he plants the softest of kisses down the column of Tony’s neck, whispers how much he loves him, how fucking stupid he can be.

And Tony takes it, needs it, wants to be punished for having not told him. This is the release of his secret. He puts a curve in his lower back, opens himself up for Steve to take, keeps his mouth buried in the sheets, tries to fight out of Steve’s hold. But he likes this. He doesn’t want to move away for a second. He wants it just like this, begging Steve to take him harder, grunting when he obliges. And this will pale in comparison to all of their slow days of lovemaking, but Tony doesn’t care. He muffles his cries when the burn of Steve’s body slapping and grinding against him makes the tingling adrenaline creep up his spine. Steve feels so good this way, deep and strong without relent, and Tony knows that he’ll have to lower his head when he next sees his landlady, because the threat of a pleasure is coiling in his chest, an orgasm low in his waist, and he wants to scream out louder than he ever has.

And Steve knows it, knows the ticks of Tony’s body when he’s barreling into a state of no control. He releases Tony’s wrists and pulls from him, soliciting a feeble cry.

Steve curses and turns Tony over. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to make Tony so undone as he does right now. He wants to stretch him thin, scrape secrets into his skin. “I love you so fucking much,” he says, slowly lifting one of Tony’s knees over his shoulder and sliding back into him, down to the hilt. The skin of his stomach presses against Tony’s begging cock, and it sputters at contact, spilling between them, twitching. And Tony’s body shudders as his back arches into it.

Steve has to press his mouth against Tony’s to quiet his shattered groan, to swallow down his shaky breaths and cries.

And when Tony’s body clenches, Steve moves out of the kiss and bites on Tony’s chin as he fills him up, his body going into a fit of nerves, but his shoulders stay stiff until he is empty and collapsing between Tony’s legs.

When Steve catches his breath, he starts to move away because they’ve never had sex this way and he isn’t sure what to do or say, but Tony puts his hand into the back of Steve’s hair and hushes him. “No. Stay. Please stay.”

Steve rises from where his lips are buried at Tony’s neck, looks down into his eyes, and nods. “Okay.”

For a long while, Tony runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, listening to the ambient noise of their street, to the landlady’s dog crying, to Steve’s steady and perfect breath. He thinks that Steve has fallen asleep after a while and thinks about resigning as well, but Steve finally pulls away from him and sits against the headboard, pulling Tony into his chest, nevermind the sticky residue all over their skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. Not about me. Not after all of this.”

“Should I worry?”

“No. It’s – it’s not a big deal.”

Tony tells him that he’s known since he was twelve. That his parents thought it was asthma. Steve listens as he pulls the sheet and blanket up over them, then lets a hand rub on Tony’s chest, right over his heart.

“Now that I’m older I have to be more careful. Watch what I eat. Drinking tea – it’s a diuretic, did you know? – that’s always helped. Can’t get away with as much smoking or drinking as I used to.”

Steve’s hand pauses its soothing for a moment. “When you were drinking a lot over those couple of months in the fall. You had me worried, but then you suddenly stopped and I didn’t have to say anything about it.”

Tony nods. “I had a little trouble breathing one night. You were sleeping. I knew it was weighing heavy on my heart so…” He trails off. He can apologize, say that he should’ve fessed up then, but it doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.

“And you stopped having a rollup before work,” Steve realizes.

Tony just nods again. What is he supposed to say?

“Jesus, Tony. I hate that you didn’t tell me.”

Tony turns and slips his arms around Steve’s ribs. With soft eyes, Tony offers something like a pout, then kisses Steve’s chin, and then his jaw. “But I’m fine,” he whispers. “I’m just fine.”

A week later, Steve gets up in the middle of the night because Tony’s cough is at its worse and neither of them can sleep. Steve sets the kettle to boil for tea when Tony starts to complain that he can’t breathe. When Steve rushes over to his side, and Tony is clutching at his chest, doing his best to take in deep breaths, but the best he can manage are sharp wheezes that won’t fill him.

He has pneumonia.

As soon as Steve gets Tony to the hospital, he calls Bruce.

It’s chaotic. Suddenly, Bruce has flown in on the Stark jet, and he’s brought a friend, a cardiac specialist from Baltimore. And now decisions must be made. The doctor concludes that the infection in Tony’s lungs has worsened quicker than it should, and his heart condition was the catalyst. He thinks it best that Tony have surgery when the infection subsides.

And Steve can do nothing. He doesn’t even know what the surgery will be for. He’s only had the chance to catch a few words he’s familiar with when all of the nurses and doctors talk in their low voices, taking furtive glances toward Tony’s hospital room.

He’s too tired to make a scene, to demand attention, to even ask a simple question. He can do nothing and wants to do nothing. He is only interested in getting near Tony, waits for that quiet moment when the hospital lights go dim and the doctors go home to rest. It is then that he can slip into Tony’s room for the night and be at peace.

Steve has Bruce to thank for that blessing.

Toward the end of Tony’s first day in the hospital, a nurse told Steve that he should go home and get some rest as visiting hours were ending. Steve hadn’t even had a chance to try sweet-talking her into letting him stay overnight. Bruce had already come forward, shaking his head and having nothing of it. He told the doctors and nurses that Steve was allowed to be in Tony’s room through the night despite not being a family member, and they obliged without so much as a hesitation.

And that night, Steve had never been happier to sit in an uncomfortable bedside chair. There was no murmur of doctors or crying children. There was silence, and he could watch Tony sleep, holding his hand and letting his own anxiousness wear him into slumber as well.

It was the sound of the door creaking open that startled him awake. He yanked his hand away from Tony’s and looked up, but it was only Bruce, slipping through the door with his hands up, displaying his peace.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Steve said quietly, taking in a deep breath.

Bruce apologized. “You don’t have to hide,” he told him. “I told the attending staff who you are to Tony. They won’t give you any trouble.”

Steve licked his lips, not knowing what to say. Finally, he relaxed in his chair again and let his fingers intertwine with Tony’s. To his surprise, Tony groaned in his sleep and his fingers tightened their grip.

“They’ve given him a sleep aid,” Bruce told him. Then, he let out a short laugh. “Amongst other things. Mostly to fight the aches. And the infection.”

Steve watched him as he distracted himself at the vase of flowers Natasha and Clint had dropped by earlier in the day. After a space of silence, Bruce finally looked over his shoulder at Steve, and there is caution in his eyes. Steve waited to see if Bruce would say anything but nothing came. Instead, he nodded a goodnight and left the room.

Bruce tiptoed around Steve for another day or two, and Steve doesn’t blame him. Steve isn’t the most approachable man under stress, and he won’t begin to deny it because he thinks he is well within his right to be a fickly mess. Tony is under constant observation and Steve can’t sit still. He watches everyone’s hands, notices any sudden movements, makes sure that any medicine being administered doesn’t seem like too much or too little, shies away when Bruce tries to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t – can’t – lose an ounce of tension until he is assured that Tony is stable and in good hands, isn’t in any pain.

Steve assumes that Bruce still carries bit of guilt, is anxious to regain some semblance of trust. Ideally, from his brother – which seems like more and more of a possibility these days – but from Steve as well. Steve can see it every time Bruce looks at him. It is the same look he had in the courtroom when Steve was sentenced. He wants to say something but doesn’t know if he is allowed the audacity.

The truth is, Steve holds no harshness for Bruce. He never has. He knows and has always known that Bruce is a good man.

Bruce has that common Stark trait of coolness in the most anxious of times. even if it is so obviously a front, and this is the utmost reason why he is glad that Bruce came. Steve watches Bruce as the days unfold, admires how he can take the reins without seeming abrasive. Whenever he can, Steve tries to mimic Bruce’s calm and confident energy. Bruce has a way of sucking others into his mood, and Steve will gladly call himself a parasite.

And Bruce is similar to Tony, which also provides a comfort. With dark hair and a wry smile, Steve sometimes can’t tear his eyes away. There’s an intense comfort about him, and Steve will allow any anchor to the idea of a healthy Tony that he can.

But now Steve notices that Bruce is as different from Tony as he is similar. He’s more reserved, voice quiet and shoulders slouched. He’s not as commandeering, but is as much of a genius as Tony is. Although – similarly – he’d shy away from anyone suggesting him as a superior intellect.

Somehow, his modesty garners attentive ears. People do as he says without much hesitation, take his opinions into account. When he arrived at the hospital and spouted off his name, the doctors on staff immediately let him into their circle, discussed more with him than what they would normally say to a patient’s family. Perhaps it had to do with him being at the helm of Stark Industries, but Steve thinks it is a bit more than that.

Every night, Bruce comes into Tony’s room to make sure that Steve has everything he needs, and he lingers a bit longer every time.

On the fifth night, Steve has a second chair already pulled out, waiting. When Bruce comes in, he eyes it, hesitates, then sits and lets out a yawn, looking at his brother, then Steve.

“Thank you for all of this,” Steve says. He thinks that he should say more, but decides that there is nothing more personal than thanking the person who is doing everything in their power to save the person he loves most.

Bruce nods. “He’s my little brother,” he says.

They sit there on opposite sides of Tony’s bed, watching him sleep. If he was awake, he’d surely tell them to stop moping and go pity someone else, but since he isn’t, they take full advantage of his silence.

“He’s going to be okay,” Bruce finally says, raising up to leave. He puts one hand into the pocket of his corduroys and lets the other rest on Tony’s arm. There is a hint of a nostalgic smile in his eyes, and then he looks over at Steve.  “He’ll be out of here before you know it. I promise.”

Steve nods.

The pneumonia gets worse before it gets better.

 

+

 

They move Tony to King’s County in London at Bruce’s insistence. It is far more equipped than the tiny Brighton hospital, and Steve feels more comfortable knowing that Tony will have the best care there.

King’s County is much louder, and larger, and whiter. For some reason or another, it reminds Steve of the busy days in his barracks. Everyone is talking. Everyone has somewhere to be, something to do. And he is sitting alone in a chair, watching, liking the lonesome, but waiting for someone to come say something to him. So that he can feel useful.

He realizes that he’s spent a lot of his life that way. Wanting to feel useful.

Here he isn’t of much use. Tony is going through consultation with the cardiac specialists, and Steve is left sitting outside of the room for some official word.

Bruce comes out of Tony’s room after a half an hour, but it seems longer. Bruce sees the tenseness, the loneliness in Steve, and sits next to him, puts a hand on his back. “My friend is the best surgeon in the world. You have nothing to worry about.” Bruce knows it only soothes Steve so much. 

Steve points to the door. “How was the consultation? What’d they say?”

Bruce leans forward, forearms to knees. “They want to operate tomorrow. They’ll have to be careful because there is still a bit of fluid in his lungs, but my friend is confident.”

Steve bites at the inside of his jaw. He hasn’t asked a lot of questions because he isn’t sure how. He isn’t sure how much he wants to know. But now that Tony’s surgery is set, he can’t wait much longer. Steve wants to hear it. To retain a bit of control. To harness his discomfort.

He clears his throat. “So, what are they going to do? Exactly. I mean. What’s…” He trails off. He wishes for clarity, but suddenly Bruce puts a hand on his knee and smiles.

“You need sleep, my friend,” he says.

Steve manages a worried smile, but doesn’t budge.

“It’s his mitral heart valve that is causing the trouble. It is finally going caput after all of these years of fighting.” He runs a hand through his fluff of hair. “They are going to put in a prosthetic valve. A bigger one.”

Bruce sees the lift in Steve’s brows. He wants to know how, but he won’t ask. Bruce tells him anyway, his voice soothing. “They’ll make an incision down his chest – from thorax to solar plexus.” He demonstrates with his hands. “Cut out the old valve and sew the new one in. A simple enough procedure, as far as cardiac surgeries go.”

“And he’ll be okay?” Steve asks. “That…sounds complicated.” He swallows.

“The recovery is what will be long,” Bruce tells him with a yawn. “You know Tony. He’ll want to get back to normal as soon as possible. You’ll have to force him to take it easy. But yes, he will be okay. Perhaps better than ever.”

Steve manages to huff a laugh. He hopes that Bruce is right. Doesn’t allow himself to think that he might be wrong.

After a brief moment of silence, Bruce stands. “I was going to go get a coffee. Did you need anything?”

“No, no,” Steve says, waving his hand. “Thank you. Do you know when I will be able to go in to see him?”

Bruce tells him he is free to go in once the doctors head out. With a short hesitation, he turns to walk away, but doesn’t get far before he stops and turns back around.

Steve is watching him with a curious tilt of his head. “Forget something?”

Bruce swallows and takes a few short and slow strides back to him. “I just… I wanted to say thank you. For calling me, I mean. I know Tony and I aren’t back to our old selves. And I don’t – I don’t blame him. And I don’t want you to think I want you to-” He stops and chuckles to himself. He wishes he were more articulate. “Just thanks for calling me. It means a lot to me.”

Steve nods, and again, isn’t sure of exactly what to say. “He loves you,” he decides. “Just give him a bit more time. And, uh, don’t be afraid to call every once in a while.”

Bruce looks like he wants to say something, but instead gives a small smile and nods before walking away.

The administrating surgeon and his nurse come out just minutes after Bruce leaves, and Steve goes to his feet with a start. The surgeon nods to him and Steve slips through Tony’s door.

His heart drops into his stomach when he walks in because he’s used to finding Tony sleeping, or drowsy at the very least. For days now, he’s been content with sitting next to him in silence, bringing him water if he wakes up in the middle of the night, replaying memories in his head when he’s desperate for the thought of Tony healthy and talkative.

But now, Tony is awake, and he looks beautiful, even with tired and baggy eyes, a bit more pale than his usual rich and tan tone. “Hey,” he says, and he’s smiling.

“Hi,” Steve returns. He goes to the side of the bed and leans down to kiss the bridge of Tony’s nose. When he pulls away, he realizes he needs more than that, and goes for Tony’s lips, and Tony accepts him with an equally soft fervor.

“I want to go home,” Tony says, watching Steve pull up a chair. “No, no, what are you doing? Come here.” Tony shifts over, and there is no way that they will fit on the bed comfortably, but Steve only chuckles and joins him, lying along the very edge of the mattress, trying to give Tony as much room as possible. He isn’t comfortable but that doesn’t matter.

Tony leans down to kiss him again, and this time Steve is more observant. Tony’s breath is labored, and his lips are dry and cold. Still, it feels so nice to kiss him, to be this close to him.

“Thank God you never get sick,” Tony mutters against his mouth.

“Wish I could say the same for you.”

Tony pulls back, a smirk growing into a full grin. “Was that a joke, Rogers?”

They both laugh as Steve nods. He’s surprised by his own lightheartedness. Being next to Tony does that. He is tired of being in hospitals, in white rooms. “I want to take you home,” he tells him with a sigh.

Tony pulls him so that his ear is resting against his chest. Steve wraps his arms around Tony’s middle and breathes in his scent. And as they lay there in quiet, he listens to Tony’s heartbeat, and he prays that it will soothe him.

But it doesn’t.

For months, he’s laid against Tony’s heart and listened, and never once did he think that the short skips in the rhythm meant anything. He chalked it up as another part of Tony that made him Tony. His own heart song.

But now the arrhythmia is worse than ever. Twice Steve nearly startles when the pumping of blood stops for a long two seconds, then stutters, and finally continues. He wants Tony to say something, but nothing comes. He’s just stroking Steve’s hair, lying perfectly still.

Steve shuts his eyes, listens a while longer until he can’t keep his eyes from welling, a tear from falling.

He rubs his cheek against Tony’s hospital gown to dry his eyes, and when he sits up, he thinks that Tony doesn’t realize.

But of course he does.

Tony slips a hand to his cheek and smiles, wiping at the wet smear on Steve’s cheek with the pad of his thumb.

And before Tony can say a word, Steve says “You’re going to be fine.”

Tony nods, manages a gentle laugh. “You’re damn right I am.”

And soon, it will be Christmas. Tony will be home by then, and he will be in extraordinary pain. There will be no gift exchanging other than the food Natasha brings by. Steve will clean the gory stiching down the center of Tony's chest twice a day, and he will eventually do it without flinching. He will try to make Tony's tea to his exact specifications, but he won't get it right until the fourth try. There won't be a Christmas tree. The New Year will come and go before Tony can so much as walk outside to get the paper.

But that doesn't matter right now. Maybe it will one day, and they'll wish that they could've spent their first Christmas together like all of the other couples in their neighborhood. But no. It doesn't seem to matter now.

And until then, Steve lays against Tony's chest, trying to predict the rhythm of his heart, hoping that he will still be able to hold him tomorrow. 


	4. Steve & Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets the answers he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for ashlee :)

# Steve & Tony

 

 

 

Tony has been covering Natasha’s Sunday appointment for a month now. This is fine, although Steve misses the Sundays they’d gotten used to – the ones where they stayed curled around one another, making it a point not to leave their flat outside of the occasional lunch-date. Usually, Steve would throw something together and Tony would lay in bed reading or watching, or both when he could manage the balance. Most times, they didn’t bother getting dressed, enjoying the stretch of one another’s glory.

When the weather was warm enough, Steve would make himself useful while Tony was at work. He took on part-time labor here and there. With so many men off to war in some capacity, he had the realm to mow lawns, fix cars, the like; he had never been particular to idleness, and didn’t mind making a bit of extra money.

Although Tony had a trust, as well as an inheritance, he didn’t use it outside of rent and grocery, and any sudden needs. Steve has admitted how impressed he was to see Tony adjust so easily to this smaller life: a quiet street, a two-room apartment, a lack of luxury. That’s to say it didn’t surprise Steve in the least bit. Tony could be simple when he needed to. That was his nature: to be adaptable first and foremost.

On the last few Sundays, Steve has used his time without Tony to draw. He pulls out his sketch paper as soon as Tony is out the door, and lets himself sink in; it is easier to draw when his mind can escape the constraints of time and environment.  

Tony was the one to make Steve realize that this was his best form of therapy, of extraditing his idleness and pain. For years, Steve turned to pencil and paper, but only Tony had contextualized it in a psychosomatic manner.

“Amelioration can be purely physical, entirely mental, or a bit of both.” He’d whispered it, coming up behind Steve to rub his shoulders. Steve had been hunched in the breakfast nook over his sketchpad, using only the moonlight to see by. This had been very early on, not long after Briony, and it was a somewhat regular occurrence for Tony to roll over and find Steve’s side of the bed empty. The first time it happened, it put him in a slight panic, but he looked up to see Steve at the table in his own calm world, and Tony didn't dare disturb it. He found it best to just lay there, watching him draw until he fell back asleep.

That night, he got out of bed for the first time, letting Steve know that he was there.

“Did I wake you?” Steve asked.

Tony said no as he looked at Steve’s drawing. A scene of dead bodies in a field of flowers. There was something beautiful in the grisliness.

“Amelioration?” Steve whispered.

“It can come from just the memory, or the mere gesture of therapy. A habit that soothes you.”

Steve swallowed, putting his pencil down and stretching his fingers wide to soothe the cramps.

Tony shelled himself around Steve, letting his hands slide down the broad and naked shoulders, the curved biceps and the blond hair of his forearms, and then he stopped to cover Steve’s hands, which were large and calloused and lovely. The groove of his pencil had created small dents on his thumb and middle fingers, and while massaging away the stiffness in Steve’s knuckles, Tony couldn’t help but wonder if Steve would bear those dents until the day he died.

Steve relaxed, melting back against Tony’s chest, enjoying the warmth of his skin. Tony always radiated with an unjustified heat.

"I watch you more often than you realize." Tony placed a kiss on the curve of Steve’s neck before he started to speak. “Sometimes when you’re thinking to yourself, you close your fist…” Tony took Steve’s right hand and formed it into a deft curve. “…like you’re holding your pencil…” Tony placed Steve’s fingertips on the tabletop and started guiding him in light strokes. “…and you’re drawing.” Tony continued to push Steve’s hand around, and he can feel Steve’s shoulder blades releasing more and more of their tension. “And, just like that, I watch all of the weight melt off you. You’re healing yourself and you don’t even realize it…” He kissed at the length of his neck again, and then the side of his temple. “See? You don’t even need me at all.”

 That wasn’t true then, and it isn’t true now. Steve needs Tony in all of the time, in every way that he is able.

Once, Tony was talking about a Freud reading he’d found at the hospital. _Beyond the Pleasure Principle_. “There’s this baby – Freud’s nephew – who hides his toy from himself every time his mother goes away. It's called _fort_ and _da_ \- forth and back. Like he’s… teasing himself, numbing himself to the possibility that his mom isn’t coming back and…” He went on to talk too bitterly about his father, but Steve remembered that theory every time he distracted himself after Tony left for the day. Whether he stopped in the middle of a drawing he actually wanted to continue, or turned the radio off in the middle of a song he likes, he was always subconsciously soothing himself, playing out the fort/da until Tony returned.

He is so scared of enjoying something too much, knowing that it can all turn to dust without notice.

Then, Tony would walk through the door, and Steve could live again, breathing full breaths.

Like now.

“You’re late,” Steve grins to himself, zipping his coat up while Tony is unbuttoning his own and kicking off his shoes.

“Sit, sit,” Tony says in that voice he gets when he’s had an epiphany, all fast-talking and distracted.

Steve scrunches his brows. “Are you changing clothes? You look fine.”

“No, I’m not changing. Sit. I want to talk to you.” He’s anxious.

“We should talk on the train, Tony,” Steve says, laughing in confusion. “Otherwise we’ll get to the city too late and-”

“The city? What? – Oh, baby, no. Stop. Sit down.” He throws his coat on the couch and backs Steve over to the bed, pushing him to sit. “Listen. I called Bruce while I was at work today. Catching up and whatnot. Anyway. I told him about the landlady and the broken stove and how I want a new apartment. He asks if we were trying to find a place in Brighton or London or New York. Then it dawned on me: we hadn’t even spoken about that.”

He’s pacing now, using his hands to talk, and Steve is only half-listening, because he takes pleasure in watching Tony when he first comes in, all frazzled with thoughts that he is anxious for only Steve to hear.

“Why haven’t we talked about that?” Tony asks. “Why are we here? Why are we still in bloody fucking _Brighton_ when we could be in Brooklyn, where we can get hotdogs and go to Dodgers games – _baby_. Let’s go back home.”

Steve is surprised, but he smiles. “I mean, I always thought we would, and-”

“Thank _God_ you said that.” He sits on the bed next to him. “Bruce has already looked into some stuff for us. He has a friend in real estate and there’s a neighborhood that he thinks we might like. He says – he says that it is especially for, uh, couples like us.”

Steve catches his inflection, but isn’t sure of what he means by it.

Tony rolls his eyes a bit. “I mean gay couples, Steve. Men and men, women and women – just… I don’t know how it came to be that way, but it is a little community. We still can’t walk down the streets holding hands, but it…it would be a start, right?”

Steve takes in a deep breath. “I thought that West Village was-”

“It was. It is. Let’s say there has been a lot of crackdown over the years, and… Well, right now, I don’t think the stress of Manhattan is for us, you know? I want quiet.”

Steve nods. “Okay. Brooklyn.”

Tony starts on a roll. “And it would be more than easy for me to get therapy work. Soldiers coming home all of the time, right? I have the experience and the name. But – oh – and if you wanted to start working, I'm sure Bruce could help with - ”

Steve waves his hand. “Okay, okay, okay. Tony. I get it. You want to move back to Brooklyn. I get it.”

Tony laughs to himself. He’s out of breath and tries to gain his composure. “Say yes. Say you want to go to Brooklyn.”

Steve smiles. “Of course I want to go to Brooklyn.”

Tony nearly jumps with his excitement, and then he throws himself against Steve, pushing him down into the bed and straddling him. He kisses over his face, and Steve laughs.

Until he feels Tony unzipping his coat.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He takes Tony’s wrists, and Tony sits up, staring down at him. “I thought we – I thought we were going into London. The fountain and the tree.”

“The tree? – no, no, no.” Tony shakes his head. “I was thinking… If Bruce can have us a place in the next couple of days, I thought we might…”

Steve raises a brow.

“I thought we could start packing, you know? If we pack our stuff up now, we can move and – Stevie, we could be back in Brooklyn for Christmas. We could spend Christmas at home and say bugger all to this dump. Right?”

Steve swallows. “Right.”

As soon as he says it, Tony moves in for another kiss, and then stands up just as quickly. “The old bat keeps a shit ton of boxes!” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m going to see if I can sweet talk her into giving them to us while I issue her our Two Week’s Fuck You.”

Steve manages a short laugh, sitting up to watch Tony leave the apartment, calling out eagerly for Mrs. Lawler, a taunting happiness in his tone.

With the apartment to himself, he tilts his head, looking toward the living room. For a month now, he's been picturing a Christmas tree:  just far enough from the door that nobody bumps it, and not close enough to their overflowing bookcase so that Tony won’t have trouble accessing it. Not too big, either, and not so small that it seems impermanent. A nice tree, with tinsel and colorful lights. And gifts wrapped and tucked underneath, waiting to be opened.

That won’t happen now.

 

The move happens even easier than Tony thought it would. Bruce followed through, calling with two potential addresses, and after describing them both, Steve and Tony easily agreed on the same one. Bruce made all of the phone calls, said that he’d have the jet for them whenever they were ready to leave Brighton.

He only had one stipulation: that Bruce and Tony have lunch together once a month. Tony had smiled into the phone and said okay. He was coming around.

The new place is on a small street in Bay Ridge. It’s a walk-up above a family-owned bakery and store; it is the only business on the block, and seems like a frequented space. The owner is an old couple who are more than happy to have them, and they welcome them with open arms, promising that they will stay out of their hair. They woman tells Tony and Steve that they have a son who is “like them”. That makes Tony laugh from his belly the entire time that they are moving boxes up and down from the truck.

It is far too cold out on the day they move in, but every time Steve is back on the sidewalk to grab another box, he finds himself stopping to admire their new neighborhood. The street is lined with homes all painted in soft colors, beautiful colonial types with a porch swing or a big tree in the yard or both. He imagines how beautiful it will look when spring comes around and green can fill the lawns and trees again.

His thoughts are so wound up in the idea of permanence that he doesn’t realize he is blocking the doorway of the bakery, and so he nearly gets knocked over when it swings open.

“Oh, sorry fella!”

Steve turns, rubbing his arm but smiling. Two men have just come out of the store, the slightly taller of the two eating an ice cream cone despite the cold, and the other carrying a canvas grocery bag. “Moving in?” they ask at the same time.

Steve looks over his shoulder at the moving van, then back at the two men. Boys, really; they can’t be much younger or older than Steve and Tony. They are standing far closer to one another than Steve and Tony have ever dared to. Not in public, and especially not for so long.

“Yeah. We are,” Steve finally nods.

They introduce themselves as Peter Parker and Wade Wilson, and they say that they live in one of the houses just across the street - the one with the red door, which Wade insists must be inappropriate, and Peter rolls his eyes and says that Wade has an awful sense of humor, apologizing on his behalf.

Tony comes down then, and Steve introduces him.

“Oh, see ‘he’ makes the ‘we’?” Wade nods.

Tony raises a brow.

“We,” Steve clarifies. “I was saying that _we_ were moving in.”

“Moving in at Christmas?” Peter asks. Something in his demeanor seems knowing, and his body moves closer to Wade, but Steve can’t tell if it is purposeful or not.

“We’ve been living in Europe,” Tony says.

“Soldier?” Wade asks, looking at Steve. He perks up.

“Army,” Steve tells him with a sharp nod. “You serve?”

“Air Force.”

“He’s Canadian,” Peter adds, and Wade scoffs. It is obviously an ongoing teasing between the two.

“Are you on leave for the holidays?” Steve asks.

With that, a whisper of pain appears on Wade’s face, which seems foreign to both Steve and Tony, even though they’ve known him for the whole of three minutes. Wade Wilson doesn’t seem like the sort of man who frowns very much.

Peter clears his throat. “There’ll be time for old war stories some other time, yeah?” He forces a smile and nudges Wade with a shoulder. “We should all have dinner together or something. A proper welcome to the neighborhood, yeah?”

Steve is still concerned with how quiet Wade has become. Their new neighbor has returned to eating his ice cream, but he seems much smaller now, distracted by thoughts.

Tony notices all of this as well. He knows the body language and the concentrated stare. The silence. And now he sees the hint of a burn on Wade’s neck, a leathery patch of skin than disappears down into his coat. The hand that is holding his ice cream is a bit unsteady - like maybe there is some nerve damage - and the same burn patch that is on his neck is peeking out from the wrist of his coat.

Even more noticeable than the remnants of Wade's past is the stance of protection Peter has taken, just a slight step ahead of him, his shoulders back and confident. No, he wasn’t a soldier, but he was taking care of one, and that was daunting enough.

Tony wonders how they'd found one another. He wonders what happened to Wade to get those burns, or how Peter had gotten past the draft. He wonders if they fight a lot – it doesn't seem like it. He wonders how often they wake up clutching one another. He wonders if they would die for one another.

Tony clears his throat. “Yes. Dinner,” he agrees.

“Right.” Peter nods, saying that they should get inside, and wishes them a happy move.

Steve and Tony stand on the sidewalk, watching them cross the street toward their home.

“They’re young,” Steve says with a sigh, watching them scale the steps to their door. “But they don’t seem like it,” he adds.

Tony huffs. “We’re young and we don’t seem like it.” He goes to the back of the van and grabs a box. “That’s war for you, huh?”

 

The layout of the space is a superimposition of the old Brighton flat, every area expanded by several feet. Tony is happy that they will be able to fit a real dining table in, and that the stove is nearly new – although he does no cooking outside of tea and the occasionally burned grilled cheese – and bathroom is larger than a fucking closet.

Again, there is a set of double-doors that separate the front of the apartment from the bedroom, and it makes Steve laugh. These doors are far nicer; they swing out instead of sliding, painted white with frosted windows. Tony likes the windows at first, but after just one evening, he decides that they will drive him crazy and he thinks they should buy curtains.

It’s nice to have this. ‘This’ meaning not much. It’s only their first night, but it’s also Brooklyn – Steve’s territory. It is also theirs and theirs alone. It isn’t another Stark property that Steve is a mere guest on, and it isn’t a place where Tony had lived just waiting for Steve to finally show up. It doesn’t hold any good or bad memories. They’ve never fought here. Briony’s never stepped foot inside.

It is a truly fresh start. They already like their landlords and the couple from across the street. They make spaghetti for dinner and eat it while sitting on their mattress. They don’t even have a bedframe. Just a mattress on the floor and loads of boxes stacked in towers in the living room.

It’s lovely.

 

It is odd to wake up together in a new place. The sounds of Brooklyn are different than what they had gotten used to; the chimes of bicycles and the honks of horns start far earlier than they did in Brighton.

The sun also hits their bedroom square on, shining right onto the bed. When it wakes Steve up, he finds Tony had already buried his face into the crook of Steve’s neck to keep the rays from his eyes. Steve chuckles to himself and pulls him in closer. They will have to get thick curtains if Tony is going to live through such bright and early mornings.

They lay in quiet for a long while before Tony starts to kiss Steve, nudging him with his morning urge, and just as they start to melt against one another with a bit of purpose, there’s a knock at the door.

They were far too tired to make love last night after dinner, and Steve woke up with every intention to christen their new space. Tony seemed to have had the same idea, grumbling his disappointment of their foiled plan. Still, he gets up and throws some clothes on before padding across the floor to answer the door.

It’s Bruce. He apologizes for waking them up, but Steve tells him it’s no problem, that they were going to start unpacking anyway. He ignores Tony’s muttering of the contrary – “I can’t say we were interested in unpacking.”-  as he starts to search for the teakettle in the boxes holding the kitchen supplies.

Bruce says he is there to tell Steve that someone wants to meet him about a job in Manhattan that afternoon if he’s interested. “I know it might feel a bit rushed but Tony mentioned you were doing part-time labor back in Brighton. I thought maybe you would want to do something you like – with your drawing and whatnot. Something a little more permanent?”

Steve can’t very well say no when Bruce had gone out of his way to help them with so much. Plus, something says that Bruce had only done this at Tony’s insistence.

Not long later, Steve is muttering under his breath while struggling to tie his nicest tie. “I don’t have any experience in anything but pushing wheelbarrows and sitting in a jail cell and how to survive marching through Europe with a stab wound.”

Tony smirks from where he is loading their bookshelf. He comes to Steve and takes control of the tie, tired of watching Steve go cross-eyed trying to do it without a mirror. “You sure know how to sell yourself,” he teases.

Steve is quiet, watching Tony’s brows tighten while he ties the tie with ease.

“There,” Tony hums. He steps back to look at his handiwork, then decides that Steve doesn’t need a tie anyway. Before Steve can argue about it, Tony unbuttons the top button of his shirt, then lays his hands on Steve’s shoulders with a warm grin. “You’re gonna be fine. You could charm a dog out of a tree.”

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”

“That’s not the point.” Tony grabs up Steve sketchbook from the mattress. “Tell them they can’t publish me in my naked glory without my permission.”

When Steve is gone, Bruce comes into the bedroom and looks around. “Haven’t gotten around to much unpacking yet,” he says.

“We were so tired from the flight and the moving that we ate dinner and turned in really early yesterday. Jet lag.” Tony sighed, putting his hands in his pockets. “We need more furniture. All of my old stuff was secondhand and crappy and I think we should – I don’t know – start over. Buy a nice bed and dresser and night stand. A bigger bookshelf. Oh, and a dining table. The one in our old kitchen was as big as a checkerboard.”

Bruce smiles. “I’ve missed you, Tony.”

“I’ve missed me, too.” He hugs his brother. “And thanks for all you’ve done.”

“Hey, it is the best I could do. I’ve wanted to come back home for years now.” He grins. “Surprised they let you back in.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Listen, I need to tell you something. About my wife.”

“Pepper, right?”

“Yeah, Pepper. She… well, we’re having a kid.”

“You’re _what_? Congratulations!” He smiles and hugs him again, even tighter this time.

“She wants to meet you. You and Steve. And she won’t take no for an answer. You guys should come up for breakfast sometime soon. After Christmas, of course. I’m sure you and Steve want to get settled in and have a stress-free holiday. After last year.”

Tony nods, looking around the apartment. It is bare and dusty in places, but he loves the warmth coming from the bakery beneath their feet, and that windows are everywhere and the wooden floors don’t creak. In a few weeks, there will be furniture and clothes in the closet. There will be food in the fridge and they’ll get their first bills for the utilities. In time, they will stop using English slang, and they will get used to the ruckus of New York life again, as well as the quaintness of their new neighborhood and the private familiarity they can already see associated with it.

“Yeah,” he says. “A stress-free holiday.”

 

There was a time when Steve never thought that he would walk down the streets of Brooklyn again as a free man. All of the nights in a jail cell, and even more nights in barn houses and under big trees, he thought the only way he would return to Brooklyn was in a coffin. If he were that lucky.

He took a cab to Manhattan, but if he could walk to his meeting, he would. It’s too cold now, but he is anxious to be on the other side of the year, in spring and summer where he could hop out of the cab as soon as he was across the bridge and walk the rest of the way, to take in the heat and the breeze and the freedom. Even with grey winter skies and the pedestrians wrapped in their coats, he can taste that moment when he’ll be used to it again. When he’ll feel at home.

That moment isn’t now, though. He isn’t that confident in New York just yet.

He thought foolishly that comfort would be automatic. That was the child in him. That was little Steve Rogers in the tow of his mother, walking hand-in-hand with her to the grocery store, wondering if he’d ever be big enough to go play basketball with the neighborhood kids.

That version of Steve doesn’t exist anymore. The Steve of now is still trying to get his footing, still gauging his own sense of self. Any chance he had to become a man in his early twenties had been stolen from him, and he had to figure it out in a state of fear and war. He had to learn who he was in the darkness.

Now he is relearning. Spring and summer will come around again soon enough, and it will be the first time in a long time that it won’t be daunted by nightmares and aches. Now is the time to ready himself for it, to plant his feet in the ground and take a deep breath, let the realization sink in.

For now, he wants the winter around him. He wants permanence. He wants continuous and peaceful sleep. He wants a job and friends and normalcy. He wants not to jump at the slam of trashcans. He wants to feel as young as he actually is. He wants to remember the swagger of his own steps, the snow of a truthful existence.

For now, he has a new apartment, and he has Tony waiting for him.

 

As soon as he starts to unlock the door, he can hear Tony yelling out for him to “Wait! Wait! Wait!”

Steve freezes, half-laughing to himself. “What are you doing?” he asks, loud enough for Tony to hear on the other side. Now that he is paused, he notices that their mailbox now has a nametag, STARK/ROGERS in Tony’s scratchy hand.

Steve decides that he’ll dwell on it later.

Tony opens the door less than an inch, just enough to reveal a single blue eye. “Come in, but close your eyes.”

“Come on, Tony. It’s cold and I’ve been in Manhattan all day and-”

“Well, if you’d stop complaining and close your eyes, you could be inside where it’s warm.”

Steve huffs and slips his hands in his pockets, gripping his keys. “Fine, fine.” He shuts his eyes, and then he is pulled inside. He stands quiet, waiting patiently as he hears the door being shut and locked behind him.

Soon, Tony is sliding of Steve’s coat, and then coming up close behind Steve to cover his eyes with his hands. Steve laughs because he knows that Tony has to stand on the tips of his toes.

Steve also notices that Tony’s hands are cool, which leads to the realization that Tony’s body feels shirtless and wet behind him. “Did you just get out of the shower?”

“Shut up,” Tony says, uninterested. “Walk. We’re going into the bedroom.”

Steve feels his nerves dancing. “I swear if you don’t tell me-”

“You’re really not good at shutting up, Rogers.”

With that, he drops his hands from Steve’s eyes, and there in the corner of their bedroom is a Christmas tree, tinseled in gold and lit with red, not too big and not too small.

“You got a tree,” Steve says in his disbelief, taking one step forward. He glances Tony’s way, then back to the tree, and then back to Tony for a second look because  -

Tony had obviously just gotten out of the shower minutes before Steve got home, and was wearing no shirt with those white linen pajama pants that drove Steve toward salacious thoughts. Especially now. Tony’s body is still wet, and the white material clings to him, making no mystery about his glory.

Steve breathes in and looks at the tree again. “You got a Christmas tree.”

Tony comes up to him with a smug smile. “I take it you like it.”

“I… I love it.” Steve is surprised at his own shock. “God, I… I guess I thought you forgot because of the move and-”

“Forgot?” Tony’s brows are raised. “Of course I didn’t forget. Well, I know I forget some things but… well, I knew this meant something to you.” He puts his hands flat on Steve’s chest and smiles up at him. “You really like it? You’re not just saying that, right?”

“Yes.” Before Steve can lean down to kiss him, Tony is walking away towards the tree.

“Well, I was hoping you’d hate it,” he is saying, plopping down on the floor.

Steve notices that there are tools scattered in a circle not far from the tree, as well as a stack of coat hangers that have been misshapen and spare string-lights. Usually, Steve wouldn’t ask – Tony was always tinkering with something – but he is no doubt curious. “What are you-”

“I’m working on something – don’t mind me. It will make the tree ten times better. Promise.” His head is already down, using a screwdriver to point Steve’s way. “You should shower. And then you can tell me what happened with the interview.”

Steve is stunned quiet for a moment, watching Tony, then he nods to himself, doing as he’s told.

When he comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, the tree has been unplugged and Tony is lying on the mattress, one knee bent lazily to the side, and he is staring up at the ceiling. The cool blue of afternoon is fading, and what little light that is left in the day is displayed over the rises and falls of Tony’s gorgeous body.

Steve will always take in the sight of him: the tan of his skin, the darkness of the hair trailing down his stomach, the way he looks so beautiful while laying there in his thoughts, warm and available for Steve to curl into.

Before he can do so, Tony breaks from his thoughts and looks up at him, and they both smile. “I left you the best part,” he says. He points to Steve’s pillow that now adorns Tony’s project.

Steve picks it up. It is a star shaped from metal hangers, small led lights painting its entire frame. Steve can see where Tony must’ve toyed for hours with the wiring, strips of copper and electrical tape and crazy glue all placed in exact form. Surprisingly, it is very clean around the edges for what few resources Tony had.

“This won’t shock me when I plug it in, will it?” Steve teases.

“No promises.”

Steve nods and pads toward the tree. “You only have me around because I’m tall enough to reach high places.”

“Just put the damn star on the tree and come to bed.”

Steve laughs and slides the star over the stiff vertical branches at the peak of the tree. Tony tells him to take the carefully stripped ends of both the star’s wiring and the string lights, and then hook them together by the safety pin.

“If I die-”

“It isn’t plugged in!” Tony says too loudly. “I swear, I’ll take the tree back if you don’t-”

“I’m kidding, kidding. Calm down.” Steve connects the star as he’s told, then plugs the tree back into the wall and –

There are blue and white lights now, twinkling off and on, trickling in a pattern down the tree, dancing with the red and gold. Steve knows that his mouth is open with his shock, but he can’t help himself. The tree is colored exactly for them, their favorite colors mingling together without being invasive or gaudy.

It is their tree.

Their first tree.

Steve lays down at Tony’s side and makes no doubt that he’s admiring all that is laying there: his damp mess of hair and the strong creases in his abdomen, the temptation of low-riding pants showing off the dark thatch of pubic hair, the waistline just hiding the curve of a warm cock.

Steve stares and stares.

Tony lets him. Doesn’t say a word. Waits.

“I love you,” Steve says, finally touching him, sliding one big hand over Tony’s hip, pulling him closer.

“You’d better,” Tony tells him. “Getting that tree in here was a nightmare.”

Steve’s nose flares as he tries not to laugh at Tony’s snark.

Tony lets his face go serious. “I love you back,” he says, bringing a hand up Steve’s arm and grasping the curve of his shoulder. “I want you to have a happy Christmas.”

Steve swallows and moves his hand up, up, up the plane of Tony’s body until he gets to his solar plexus, where the scar of his heart surgery begins.

It’s funny that they carry scars in the same places.

Steve leans down and kisses the bottom of Tony’s chest and makes a slow path with his tongue and lips, straight up the line of the year-old incision. Tony rubs his hands along Steve’s back, spreading his legs open so that Steve can maneuver himself between them. He hums in delight.

When Steve makes it up to Tony’s neck and cheek, he finally pulls back. “I don’t think it was about the tree,” he whispers.

Tony waits.

“It was always about you. I needed to know that… that we could do it. That we could have a home and tradition and… hell, Tony, I don’t know.”

Tony’s brows scrunch together. “You thought I didn’t want those things?”

“I wasn’t sure. I was afraid that we were together because we were desperate to have, hell, anything. I thought may you kept me around because you still felt obligated to -”

Tony shakes his head. “You’re not a project to me. You never were. I keep you around because that’s exactly what I intend to do: keep you. Not for months. Not for the sake of a holiday. I’m going to die with you. That’s the truth of it all.”

Steve wishes he’d believe in himself more. Perhaps it will one day come.

He nods his head and kisses Tony’s mouth, and it is gentle, almost meek.

Until Tony brings his fingers to the waist of Steve’s bathtowel and pushes it away. Then takes those same fingers to scratch at him, to pull him in, to play in the back of his hair. And he moans quietly when Steve’s fingers venture as well, gripping and guiding Tony out of those white linen pants that Steve knows were worn just because they drive him crazy.

Steve pulls out of the kiss. “Every time I’ve made love to you – every single time – you’ve had to be quiet.”

“Granted, it isn’t always quiet,” Tony teases, but his eyes are curious.

Steve leans close to his mouth again. “I don’t want you to be quiet tonight.”

Tony lets out a very hot and wet breath just as Steve gets up from the mattress and walks to the bathroom. Tony watches him dig through his shaving kit where he’d packed their little jar of slick petroleum, and then walk back into the room. He isn’t smiling, or smirking, or blushing as he gets between Tony’s legs again and hovers over his mouth for another kiss.

And as he runs slick fingers over his cock, he says, “I want you to let go. I want you to scream for me.”

Tony is so shocked that his bottom lip hangs down and he doesn’t kiss back. He’s frozen, letting those hot words course through him, and he’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice Steve pushing his thigh back and pushing inside of him.

Instantly Tony digs his fingers into Steve’s back and pulls him in so that they are chest to chest. He bites down on his own bottom lip as he always does, trying to force himself to relax so that he can breathe easy, but this time, Steve chastises him. “None of that,” he mutters against Tony’s mouth, putting his weight on him, filling him up. “I want to hear you.”

“Jesus,” Tony breathes out as Steve makes a very sharp roll of his hips. “Stevie, I…”

He doesn’t try. He moans and slips his hands off Steve’s body and back to the edge of the mattress, gripping it for his own sake.

And Steve buries his lips in Tony’s neck, kissing him right beneath his ear where he isn’t usually allowed to dwell too long because it drives Tony up the wall and closer to orgasm.

It doesn’t take long – it never really has – for Tony to start huffing out his breaths, and at Steve’s insisting – “Let me hear you, baby. Come on.” – he starts to be more vocal, moaning out.

And it feels good in a way that he hadn’t expected it to. He thinks back to their first time in the library all of those years ago, and every single time in the old Brighton flat. Even at his loudest, he bit back as much as he could. The last thing he wanted was the old landlady to come up, or worse, call the police.

But here…

Their new home doesn’t feel like a closet to hide in. There’s nobody below them threatening to ring the alarm. The landlord’s son likes men. The men named Wade and Peter across the street make little mystery about their care for one another.

They have a Christmas tree. They have one another.

“Jesus, yes,” Tony calls out, bringing one hand forward to make Steve stop kissing his neck. He puts his palm flat on Steve’s hard chest and scratches at him while looking down at where their bodies are flushed together. The sight of Steve slipping through him does him over, and it grants Steve exactly what he wants: unaltered moans and grunts that turn into sharp and louder cries. It encourages Steve to rock his hips faster just so he can hear more.

However, he underestimated how much hearing Tony calling out his pleasure would affect him.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me – goddammit.” Steve groans and lowers his head to Tony’s shoulder, but doesn’t dare stop shoving his hips forward.

Tony wraps his legs tighter around him, says – shouts – that he’s going to come, that he needs Steve to keep going, keep going.

The final sound Tony makes as he gives into his orgasm sounds very similar to his laugh. It is full and from deep in his chest, a bit gravelly and definitely warm. It makes Steve shudder, raises the hairs on the back of his neck, and he lets his weight fall as he comes, too, his eyes clenching shut as he lets his body spill out.

It takes a moment of laying in heavy silence for Steve to roll over to his side of the bed, but Tony moves with him so that he can rest against his chest. Steve smiles, then chuckles and wraps an arm around him, kissing the top of his head.

Tony laughs too, kissing Steve’s chest and settling down.

After a while, Steve starts to fall asleep, but Tony scratches at him.

“Next time you need reassurance that I want you,” Tony whispers. “You could just ask.”

Steve swallows, and he knows he’s blushing from embarrassment. “Now I know.”

“Good,” Tony sighs. “Because I can’t buy you a Christmas tree every time you doubt yourself.”

Steve chuckles. “Okay.”

“Seriously. Do you know the trouble Bruce and I went through to get the damn thing?”

“Tony.”

“The first one we bought didn’t fit in the goddamn door, so we took it back and got this one.”

“Tony.”

“And I cut my finger twice on the damn lights. I never decorated the tree back at the country house. I always watched you do it.”

“I got it, I got it,” Steve says, covering his face with a hand and laughing into it. “Christ, I got it.”

Tony moves until he’s straddling him, and he has a very tired and lazy smile. “I mean it, though,” he says, dragging a finger down the side of Steve’s cheek. “I’ll tell you all you need to hear. This is all that matters to me.”

Steve nods.

Tony settles against him again. “You didn’t tell me how your meeting went.”

“Well, as I recall, I was ambushed the moment I got home.”

Home.

Tony laughs. “So what happened?”

“They are giving me an eight-panel comic for their weekly war nickelodeon.”

Tony sits up. “Really? That’s great.”

Steve smiles and brings him back down into their hug. He likes how warm he feels, all naked and spent.

“Do you know what you’re going to do with it yet?” Tony asks in a tired whisper. “Gonna go autobiographical? A soldier trying to get home to his lover?”

Steve breathes out. “Doesn’t sound like a bad story.”

“That sounds like a _terrible_ story.”

Steve rolls his eyes and grins, but he is too sleepy to laugh. “I don’t think it’s that terrible at all,” he says. “Plus, you’re supposed to write what you know, right?”

Tony hums, but stays quiet otherwise for a long while until he says “Captain America.”

Steve raises a brow. “Sorry?”

“That’s what you should name him. Captain America: America’s favorite soldier, giving hope to all in the face of tyranny and despair.”

Steve sighs, rubbing a hand across Tony’s back. “Go to sleep, Tony.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


End file.
